


These Violent Delights

by sugarboat



Category: BioShock
Genre: Blowjobs, Dubious Consent, Light Praise Kink, M/M, Mind Control, Rough Oral Sex, Violence, Would You Kindly (BioShock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:39:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8491912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: A Splicer seems to knock a few screws loose in Jack's head, and Frank decides a more personal approach is needed to get him sorted out again.





	

Frank Fontaine had been holed up in this dingy security room for God only knew how long. Through the hazy film of smoke his piercing eyes stayed fixed to the various screens, watching the static-lined grey images of his Frankenstein creation – bought and paid for, _signed, sealed, delivered_ – as he carved a bloody path through the soaked streets of Rapture. Well! Let it never be said that Frank didn’t get what he paid good money for. Except…

He struck a match, a small orange flare in the otherwise white washed room and heaved a frustrated sigh. He stooped forward to light his cigarette. His gaze flicked to the door as he heard the shambling gate of one those lunatics walking by, dragging something heavy along the floor behind it. They were always muttering to themselves, the damn Splicers – could never shut up long enough to give him five minutes to think. And think he needed to, because for the last what, half an hour, his good ol’ _boyo_ down there had been in the same damn spot.

Doing the same. Damn. Thing.

At first, Frank had been annoyed that this particular set up hadn’t included sound, but as he watched Jack’s repetitive, rhythmic movements, he couldn’t deny his relief. On the grainy screen, Jack raised his wrench again, blood and tiny flecks of something – tissue, bone – flying off its end before he was swinging it back down. And then again. And then again. And then again.

“Hey, boyo,” Frank said into the radio, his phony accent firmly in place. No response. Jack’s arm raised again and the worthless bugger didn’t seem to react to his voice at all. The wrench crashed back into what had to be nothing but pulp by now. Frank slammed his fist down on the consul before him, so hard that the buttons beneath his hand buckled and a few forks of electricity sparked up from it. “ _Would you kindly_ stop doing that and get back to your god damned mission!?” 

Jack’s whole body shuddered, as it had every time before when Frank had used his trigger, but a brief interlude later he was back to swinging his wrench. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each impact on the screen was so visceral he could almost hear it. Yeah, if Frank had had to listen to that all this time he would have lost his mind, as if watching his expensive toy break right before his eyes wasn’t enough to do the same. 

It was a shame that Suchong was already wearing his Chicago overcoat, so to speak, cause Fontaine would love to wring his scrawny little neck for this. As it was, he could at least take some comfort in knowing the old needlenose had died a screaming, messy death as far as could be determined. Frank hunched over, running his fingers through his hair. What the fuck was he going to do?

They were so close. Jack had been everything he’d been promised, and more. Barked, leapt, and bit like a trained dog: only at the word of his master. He was _not_ going to lose to Andrew Ryan, not now, not when he could taste the splendor of Rapture and everything beyond it on the tip of his tongue. He lifted his head, holding his cigarette steady as he took a deep drag, eyes glued to the bloody figure on the monitor. Still thumping away.

Christ.

Frank was not the kind of man to give up and throw in the towel the moment the world decided to give him the royal shaft. No, he was no quitter, but he wasn’t a damned idiot either. He knew when to cut his losses and walk away. If his pet project down there wasn’t responding to his commands, then he was no use, whether he snapped out of this loop or not. But that would mean scrapping years of planning – and cash. 

He stood up, his chair scraping across the steel ground as he did so. The sound was almost deafening in the silent office. 

“All right, Jackie boy, you’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Frank snarled into the radio. He didn’t bother to disguise his voice. “I’m coming down there, and _would you kindly_ just keep doing _exactly_ what’re doing now?” He didn’t bother to look at the screen, instead grabbing his pistol off the top of the control panel. A flick of his wrist had the chamber sliding smoothly open, ingrained habit making him check the number of bullets within before clicking it shut again. 

There was a sudden pounding on the door to his right, and the muffled voice of one those drug-addled freaks. Degenerates. They’d gotten the job done, sure, of bringing the great Andrew Ryan’s city to its knees around him, but they were nothing more than lousy, soft minded marks. Rich kids who played at being tough, sheep who played at being shepherds. The door shook in its frames, the metal bending inwards where the Splicer was no doubt slamming his weapon against it.

Well. If he was going to go around knocking on death’s door, who was Frank to disappoint? And since he wouldn’t be shooting his little science project in the head anytime soon – unless things really took a turn – he would at least get the grim satisfaction of putting something out of its misery. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his shoe, and tossed his gun to his left hand, then back to his right. Then he opened the door, raising his arm to point the barrel right at the freak’s eye socket. 

Three quick shots later Frank was stepping over its mutilated body, a fine speckling of blood painting his face and clothing. One good thing about living in a city gone to absolute hell – no worries about cleaning up after yourself. He spat on the corpse as he walked by, and wracked his brain trying to remember how to get to where Jackie boy had last been.

Thankfully, Jack wasn’t too far away, at least in terms of Rapture. Frank had even been planning on moving camp soon before the kid had gotten it in the tangled wires of his head that he had to make mashed potatoes out of some Splicer’s brains. It wasn’t too difficult to avoid the worst of the packs of roaming loonies, Frank having spent the better part of the last few hours watching security feeds from all over the sunken and sinking city. What few he couldn’t avoid he blew the brains out of, and even if his natural inclination towards bloodlust was being slackened, his ire towards the one forcing him out into this cesspit was only growing. 

The streets slowly became more and more abandoned, until Frank couldn’t even hear the Splicers’ incessant yammering and muttering, the shuffling of their unsteady gaits as they stalked back and forth, searching for whatever it was crazy, strung-out people searched for. A dull, wet thunking filled the air, and he followed it. It was a long while before he came to Jack, and never once did the sound falter or change in rhythm. There was something to be said for consistency, wasn’t there?

Frank kept his weapon drawn as he strolled into the square Jack had stopped in. There, lit by the flickering glow of a street light, was Jack. He was down on his knees, straddling what Frank assumed had once been a Splicer. There was nothing but a fleshy mass of tissue and bone shards where its head used to reside, and Frank’s features twisted in distaste as he watched Jack slam the head of the wrench into that pile again. And again. 

He stalked over to the boy’s side and crouched down, gun held loosely in his fingertips. Even getting this close didn’t seem to show any signs of shaking Jack out of his stupor. Frank watched him bring the weapon down a few more times.

“What am I going to do with you, boyo?” he said in Atlas’ voice. His eyes raked over the kid’s face, searching for any sign of recognition. Nothing. Frank sighed, straightening up again. 

Damn it all to hell. The man before him was liberally splattered with blood, the dark red seeped into the thick wool of his sweater. There were cuts and burns littering his body, holes punched in his clothes and skin where bullets had ripped through him. A particularly nasty laceration that curved along his side was still dripping blood. Jack’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, and not for the first time Frank wondered just what, if anything, was going through his mind. 

“Hey,” he said softly, still in cloaked in his disguise, “would you kindly look at me?” 

And there, finally, a reaction. Jack blinked once, twice, his movements stilling. His body gave that shudder Frank had seen through the screen. It was unnerving up close, watching his muscles clench and unclench in a desynchronized wave, producing a jerking, shivering motion. If Frank were a lesser man, he would have withdrawn, but he knew the value of keeping a cool façade. Jack raised his head, staring at him. Frank grinned.

“There, that’s better. Now drop the wrench, would you, that Splicer’s more than a hair past dead,” he said. The clanging, metallic crash of the weapon sliding free from Jack’s fingers was like music. That was a relief – his science experiment wasn’t broken beyond repair, at the very least. But it did beget one to wonder, what the hell happened? 

Frank stood to his full height, chuckling as Jack’s gaze followed him. Good boy, wasn’t he? He maneuvered to stand fully in front of him, legs planted on either side of the mutilated remains of the Splicer. With one hand, he reached out and grabbed Jack’s chin, tilting his head back so he could get a clearer look at him. 

The kid looked out of it, that was for damn sure, but it was hard to say what was wrong. Too much ADAM? Too much alcohol? The pieces of a phrase some Sunday school teacher had said to him once - something about violent acts warping the nature of a man - floated in the back of his mind, but Frank had never believed any of that hogwash. He looked Jack over, until, there: on the edge of his temple, a thick bruise was forming, so purple it was near black. Coated in blood as Jack was, Frank had missed it at first, but it seemed as though this thug of a Splicer had brained his business partner here something good. 

He tugged Jack’s head to the side, the man following his lead docilely. Frank crouched back down, setting his weapon on the ground, and his other hand drifted up to press against the bruise, followed it back where it disappeared into his hairline. Jack let out a sharp hiss of pain at the contact. The pale threads of his hair were wet and clumped together. Frank carded his fingers through the matted strands, feeling at the small gap where Jack’s skin had split. He could feel the other man shivering. 

“Well,” he began, “I don’t suppose a first aid kit’s gonna be fixing this, is it?” Even with his head turned, Jack’s gaze was still glued to him. Frank let go of him, but Jack stayed in position until he was guided to look forward again. “What would you do without me, boyo?” Nothing, Frank assumed. Or perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate – the kid had been up on dry land for a stretch, after all. Frank hadn’t seen him in a long, long time.

Frank grabbed his gun off the ground and stood. Jack stayed almost motionless on the ground, staring at him expectantly, eagerly even. Waiting for his next command. Frank sneered – it was pathetic. It was enticing. Not to say that he’d been getting his rocks off watching Jack skip to whatever tune Frank chose, but it carried a certain thrill to it all the same. And here in the flesh, well, it was becoming a whole different story.

“Ah hell, you’re going to the Vita-Chamber after this either way, aren’t you? Stand up and follow me, would you kindly,” Frank said. He’d slipped out of character but Jack didn’t seem to notice. Whether that was due to the command or the head trauma, it wasn’t clear, and Frank didn’t give much of a damn either way. 

They didn’t have to go too far. The kid was thorough when he went through a place, picked it clean of loot and Splicers alike. Frank dropped onto one of the benches lining the walkways, slinging his arms up to rest along its back, and spread his legs. Man alive, there was a time this part of the city would have been packed to the brim, gaggles of girlies running around tittering, all of them looking like starlets thanks to Plasmids and good old doctor Steinman. Now the lighting flittered incessantly, and the low buzz of florescent bulbs was the only sound. 

Jack stopped a few feet in front of him, and with the barrel of his gun Frank gestured him closer. Like the well-heeled beast that he was, Jack came to him, standing just before him between his knees. 

“Sweater off, boyo. Time to see what good money can buy.” Without hesitation, Jack’s hands went to the hem of his thick sweater, pulling it up and off. His actions didn’t slow even when threads of it clung to his wounds, peeling away from old and fresh injuries alike. He held the bulky fabric in his hand for a moment, and then let it fall in a heap to the dirty floor.

Apparently, good money can buy a lot. Jack was a picture perfect specimen, spine straight even with his torso littered with gashes and contusions. Some nasty bruises were focused along one side of his ribs, like he’d been kicked while he was down. _Well, haven’t we all been?_ A half healed bullet hole near his shoulder, a shiny red and blistered patch down his chest, and randomly placed lacerations, shallow and deep, from those hook-handed freaks. 

“On your knees, would you kindly,” Frank murmured. Jack dropped immediately, a sharp crack resounding as his knees slammed into the pavement. The kid didn’t even wince. Frank dropped his gun on the bench next to him, leaning forward slightly. He placed his hands on Jack’s shoulders, his left thumb drifting down to rub circles around the raw looking puncture wound. 

“I guess those doctors really knew what they were doing when they put you together, huh? You know, they shuffled through your _‘genetic code’_ and just picked and chose what they wanted. Wonder what got left on the cutting room floor, don’t you?” Jack looked confused, and Frank took the opportunity to shove his thumb into the bullet hole. Hands were suddenly around his forearm, strong fingers digging in tight, pulling him away, and Frank laughed.

“Oh, so there’s something inside there after all? I was beginning to think you were all brawns and no brains! Now would you kindly let go, and keep your arms down?” The grip around his arm loosened, Jack’s hands going slack and his arms lowered to dangle at his sides. “Good boy.” It seemed something was starting to cut through whatever haze the kid had been in – he was beginning to look more and more aware, concerned even, as Frank flip flopped between being ‘himself’ and Atlas. 

“Just a concussion, boyo, nothing to fear,” he cooed in his false voice. Frank shoved his thumb back into the wound, twisting it. “A few wires crossed in that head of yours.”

“A-Atlas?” Jack’s voice came out scratchy and wane, like he’d been screaming his throat raw recently. He jerked and gasped in pain when Frank thrust his thumb in deeper, bent and hooked it, but didn’t lift even a pinky to resist in any other way. 

“In the flesh,” Frank said. Sure, there was nothing to be gained from messing with the poor man’s head right now, but what the hell. He was allowed to cut loose, have a little fun. “Couldn’t very well leave you twisting in the wind all alone, now could I?” 

“You came to help me?”

“’Course I did, boyo.” Frank watched the way Jack’s chest rose and fell, short and shallow breaths leaving it practically heaving. He wrenched his thumb free and Jack’s breathing stuttered, his muscles bunching and trembling minutely. With his now free hand he cupped the side of Jack’s face, thumb leaving wet trails of blood where he stroked it up and down the smooth skin. Dealing with this kid was like shooting fish in a barrel. “I said I’d be looking out for you, didn’t I?” Did he? Frank didn’t even remember, but it wasn’t as though it mattered. 

Jack, for his part, looked relieved, his shoulders slouching as his body relaxed. Frank gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then let his right hand travel lower. It brushed over the raw, burned patch of skin on his chest – and Jack’s chest leapt beneath his touch, breath caught in his lungs – continued lower, settling over the curving and ragged laceration that was still steadily weeping hot red blood. 

“And since I’ve helped you, well, here I was thinking you might be inclined to return the favor.” Frank had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as Jack frowned in confusion, frazzled brain clearly overclocking in an attempt to remember events that never happened. One would think he’d be adept at it by now. “Well, boyo? What do you say? Would you kindly lend me a helping hand?” _Or mouth._

“Of course, Atlas,” Jack said, the reply instantaneous. Frank slid his hand around from his cheek to bury his fingers in the short strands of Jack’s hair. 

“There’s a good lad.” A tremor quaked through Jack’s body at that, and oh, wasn’t that interesting? If Suchong still resided among the living, Frank would be tempted to give him a raise. “Now, why don’t you start off by relieving me of my belt, eh?” 

The man hunched forward, but then abruptly froze, and Frank felt his jaw clench in irritation. What in the bloody hell was the matter now? Jack looked just as troubled, his eyes flickering, and then it clicked together. The command to keep his arms down was still in play. Frank chuckled and pet through Jack’s hair a few times in comfort, even as the fingers of his other hand slid up and down the jagged opening of his wound. 

“Ah, here boyo, let me,” Frank said. His hands left Jack, coming to deftly flick his belt free of its buckle, sliding the black leather free. “Now, with your mouth, would you kindly.” That seemed to resolve whatever internal conflict had made ol’ Jackie boy stall out, and Frank filed it away as useful information. 

He leaned back against the bench, one arm slung over it and the other resting a hand in Jack’s hair again. The boy lowered himself, bending forward, and Frank’s fingers tightened in his hair when his lips brushed against his clothed erection. Damn, it had been a while. His hips were already twitching, eager to drive upwards, as he felt Jack fumbling clumsily with lips and tongue and teeth at the button of his pants. 

It took him a few tries, but Frank thought of it as a tease, Jack’s mouth just barely ghosting over him. And he didn’t even have to say anything before Jack was taking the zipper of his slacks between his teeth and dragging it downwards. Frank let out a breath hissed through his teeth. Jack stopped there, apparently unsure how to proceed. 

“Good, very good.” He kept his left hand clenched in Jack’s hair, gave him a short tug, and with his right he reached down to free himself from the confines of his briefs. His fingers and palm were still damp with Jack’s own blood, and he smeared the substance on himself as he briefly stroked up and down his cock. “Ah, Jack, look what you’ve gone and done - your blood’s gotten everywhere! Would you kindly clean it off for me?” Jack frowned, like he was processing something. “With your tongue, boyo.” 

Frank was getting good at this. Whether the enthusiasm had anything to do with the kid’s inner workings or was just a by-product of his conditioning, Frank didn’t care to know, but Jack leapt to task like he’d been born to do it. His eyes were glued to the man as he lapped at his cock, tongue dragging over every inch of it. Long strokes and short strokes, without rhythm but firm against his hard flesh, and now Frank couldn’t help but to shift his hips, his legs falling further apart. At the tip of his cock, Jack licked over and over, running around the head to ensure he’d gotten every single drip of his blood off. 

“Mouth open,” Frank growled, and he held Jack’s head still as he thrust his dick into his mouth. He felt his dick hit the back of the kid’s throat and he let out a groan, jerking Jack’s head back off of him before pushing him back down. “Relax.” So easy, just like that, Jack went from gagging and coughing to smoothly accepting Frank’s cock down his throat. Frank thrust up, jamming his dick as deeply as it would go. “Choke.” Fuck, he was going to cum, the muscles of Jack’s throat suddenly clenching and spasming around his flesh, and after an elongated moment he wrenched the kid off him again, letting go of him to try and delay the inevitable. 

Jack leaned away from him, to the side, coughing violently. Tears were leaking from his eyes – probably involuntary, Frank had choked enough whores on his cock to be familiar with the signs. Frank allowed him some time to recover, using it to calm down himself. He loosely palmed his dick, which was glistening and soaked with saliva now. When Jack finally seemed to have composed himself, Frank cleared his throat, prompting the man to turn to face him once more.

“Now, you get the idea, right boyo? Know the rhythm?” Jack looked at him blearily but nodded his head. Frank put his hand gently on the side of his face again, cupping his cheek. “You still want to help me, don’t you? You were doing so good.” 

“I’d do anything to help you, Atlas.” There was a flush to his cheeks.

“Course you would.” He threaded his fingers back through Jack’s hair and guided him down. “Now, would you kindly suck my dick?” 

Frank should’ve been doing this from the damn start. That enthusiasm was back, Jack’s mouth sliding up and down his cock fervently, Frank could imagine almost hungrily. Like Jack wanted it. When he thrust upwards, forcing the head of his cock to his throat, he could feel Jack gag against him, and he did it once, twice, until the third time he felt himself just slip down his throat. Those eggheads sure did know what they were doing. 

Drool was leaking over Jack's chin, out of the sides of his mouth. Frank fucked his face, the hard grip on the back of his head driving their pace. He wasn’t going to last much longer. Frank gave a few more rough, particularly forceful thrusts.

“Swallow, would you?” And Jack was gulping him down like was trying to drain him. He lodged himself as deeply as he could manage, moaning lowly as he emptied himself straight down Jack’s throat. Frank held him in place until he was sure he’d gotten it all, and then let go, slumping on the bench. “Stop, that’s enough.”

Jack pulled away, coughing again, one hand rubbing his throat. They were both heaving for breath. Frank let his eyes slip shut for a minute, listening to his heartbeat thump in his ears. Damn. It was going to be a shame to have to off the kid after all was said and done. Maybe he’d think about coming up with a work around. In the meantime, Frank straightened, tucking himself back into his pants and straightening his clothing.

“Nice work, boyo,” he said. The kid's face was still flushed and his lips were cherry red. Frank sighed and picked up his gun. “Now, there’s just a few more things you could do for me, Jack.” He flicked the cylinder open, and fumbled in his pocket for more rounds, sliding bullets into the empty chambers. “First of all, would you kindly forget about the last, oh, 40 minutes of your day?” Jack’s gaze went blank, and Frank slammed the cylinder shut. He flipped the pistol, and then presented it handle first towards Jack. “And finally, would you kindly shove the barrel of my gun in your mouth and blow your brains out?”

No hesitation, just how Frank liked it. Jack reached forward and grabbed the pistol. And then his mouth was opening, the barrel of his gun sliding in where his dick had just been, and then Jack was pulling the trigger, and then his body was falling backwards, the Plasmids in his veins already lighting up, doing whatever scientific bullshit they did to revive the Ryans in their fancy Vita-Chambers.

Frank stood and picked his pistol up from the ground. He stuffed it into the holster at his side, and then lit a cigarette. His gaze rested on the bloodstain Jack had left behind.

“Damn shame.”


End file.
